


Smooth(ie Blender) Operator

by Celly1995



Series: "Will It Blend?" [1]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Not Hockey Player(s), Butts, Flirting, Getting Together, Hockey Ass Appreciation, Hockey Player Patrick Kane, Idiots in Love, Jonny is Not a Pro Hockey Player, Judgmental Jonny, M/M, The Author Regrets Nothing, smoothies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-06-10 03:17:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6937489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celly1995/pseuds/Celly1995
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick just wants his smoothie. Is that so wrong? So he can do without that guy from the organic place <i>judging</i> him for it, OK?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smooth(ie Blender) Operator

**Author's Note:**

> Someone had said something about wanting a fic with this premise, and my brain went "hey, I think we can work with that!" So this happened really quickly. Thanks to my beta and to the original prompter/requester. Hopefully, it's enjoyed.

Patrick's getting really goddamn sick of this.

Not his post-practice mango strawberry protein boost smoothie, because it's fucking delicious, and a much-deserved treat after practices like the one today, where he feels sort of battered mentally and emotionally on top of physically. It's also fast, something he can grab on his way home, so it wins two ways.

No, what he's sick of are the judging looks from the guy with the shark-eyes, who apparently runs the organic green smoothie/snack place Patrick has to pass to _get_ to the Jamba Juice.

Every week. Every fucking week (or thereabouts, because it's sort of a regular habit, but not, like, Sidney Crosby levels of routine), he walks by and sees this guy stare at him as he walks by. Patrick makes sure to ignore him and that dead-eyed, still-somehow-judging stare, and keeps on his merry way. Yeah, fine, there's maybe a lot of sugar in his drink, but he knows exactly what he can and can't do, if he wants to keep up his game. Or maybe it's that Patrick's not Buying Local or whatever, bypassing the little guy for the giant corporate machine. It's his money, he can spend it however he wants.

Plus, again, it's really fucking good.

Or, well, he's always _been_ able to ignore the judgment. Until today.

Maybe it's Coach riding them harder than usual in practice, maybe it's the frustration of tossing all of their lines into a blender and not having it come out the way Q wants, maybe it's the trade rumors that he knows are bullshit but get to him anyway, despite the barely-dry ink on the contract extension. Whatever it is, it makes something in Patrick snap, and he finds himself stomping into the other place, doubling back without even having placed his order at Jamba Juice.

"What," he snaps, watching the look of utter shock on the guy's face as Patrick bursts in and approaches the counter, "is your deal?"

The guy's eyebrows are up so high they're practically in his hairline, which is no easy feat, given the amount of forehead on display. "Excuse me?"

"Don't think I haven't noticed you judging me every time I walk past this place," Patrick says. He belatedly looks around to see if he's disturbing other customers, but there aren't any at the moment. "Why, exactly, does my mango-strawberry smoothie with protein booster fail to meet your approval, huh?"

The guy—his name tag says 'Jonathan'—flushes, which is the justification Patrick needs. "I wasn't judging." It's indignant, not apologetic or timid or anything else like that, and that might actually be even more irritating.

"Bullshit," Patrick huffs. "You were. 'Fess up."

"I wasn't judging," Jonathan says again, firmly. "You can drink whatever the hell you want, as often as you want. If that's what you want to put in your body, go for it."

Okay, now the look he's giving Patrick is _definitely_ judging.

"Look, man, I really can do without the judgy looks, so—"

"Let me make you a free drink, to apologize," Jonathan says, cutting him off.

Patrick blinks. "Uh." How did they suddenly go from Patrick being rightfully irritated at being judged to being offered free product? "Okay?" Jonathan's already more than halfway through putting shit in the blender before Patrick catches on to something. "Wait. What do you mean, 'to apologize'? I thought you said you weren't judging me."

Jonathan pours the drink, snaps a lid on the cup—not Styrofoam, of course; Patrick would bet money it's some post-consumer-recycled-whatever material—and hands it over, along with a straw. Patrick doesn't even notice that Jonathan's also simultaneously walking him out until he hears the chime of the doorbell as Jonathan's arm pushes it open in front of Patrick. "I wasn't judging your choice of smoothies," he says with a snort as Patrick steps outside. "I was judging your ass. Which is pretty nice."

Patrick's struck utterly dumb at that. He what? "You what?" he finally asks, once words become something he's mastered again. Only it's too late. Jonathan's inside already, somewhere even further back than the counter, because Patrick can't see him at all through the windows. "He what?" he asks again, aloud, to no one in particular, standing alone outside the shop. 

No one answers. But a couple of girls look his way, and one of them nudges the other, and shit, he's been recognized. He gives a little wave in their direction, trying to smile over the confused look that's got to be on his face right now, and hightails it out of there.

He takes the first sip of whatever the hell the smoothie is as he's almost back to his car and twitches his nose. It's no mango-strawberry, that's for damn sure, and it's dark green to boot. He's definitely not in love with it. But it's not really _bad_ , either, he thinks, taking another sip and sliding into the driver's seat of his vehicle. He could stand to drink something like this, maybe, once in a great while. It's probably good for him, being all organic and everything.

Besides...the guy who made it was maybe actually kind of cute. In a weird, serial-killer-default-expression sort of way.

* * *

It takes him about three weeks, partially because of a bunch of away games scattered on just the wrong days, but Patrick finally makes his way back to the organic smoothie place.

There are people inside this time, but either no one recognizes him, or they're the type of fans who appreciate personal boundaries and privacy in non-hockey spaces. Jonathan doesn't even look up from his blender at first—he just tosses a "good morning!" over his shoulder while he works, so Patrick stays quiet. It's not until he hands the two glasses of whatever he's made over to the man and woman waiting at the counter that he really sees Patrick standing there. "You're back," he says, looking surprised. Also, nervous.

"Yeah, well," Patrick says, trying to be absolutely casual about things, like he hasn't been thinking about the fact that this guy's been potentially checking his ass out for at least the last two years, or as long as Patrick's been going to the Jamba Juice down the way. "I thought it wouldn't kill me to go for the organic option, now and then."

"Is that so?"

"Unless you can think of another reason I'd be back?" It's a bit of a challenge, albeit an indirect one, but Patrick waits for the response, feeling just the slightest flutter of butterflies in his stomach. These aren't weird low-blood sugar butterflies, either. Those, he knows all too well. 

Jonathan doesn't give an answer, though, the bastard. He just sort of shrugs. But then he grins in a lopsided way, and the butterflies flutter a bit more strongly, which is a bad sign for Patrick. "What can I get for you?"

 _Your number_ , Patrick wants to say, but doesn't. He glances up at the menu on the wall. "A Number Eight," he says, impulsively. He doesn't even know what's in it, but fuck it.

Jonathan's eyes go wide for a split-second, then normal out. "Yeah, all right." He rings Patrick up and gets to work on his drink. Patrick sees what he thinks is wheat grass make it in there, along with what might even be kale—though he can't quite get a good look at it, with Jonathan in the way—and resigns himself to his vitamin-K- and chlorophyll-loaded fate. 

And, since Jonathan's taken the liberty, Patrick waits until the guy's back is turned and checks out his ass, just to even things out.

And _damn_.

That is one amazing ass. It rivals asses of certain pro hockey players Patrick knows, in size and apparent muscle tone. When Jonathan crouches down to grab something else out of the cooler, Patrick wonders which brand his pants are, because holy shit, Jonathan's ass is giving the fabric and stitching a serious test of endurance and resilience. Goddamn.

He pulls his shit together before Jonathan turns back around, drink in hand, but only just in time. "Here you go, Mister Kane. Your Number Eight."

Ha, so Jonathan _did_ know who he was. He couldn't have lifted the name from a credit card, since Patrick had used cash. "Dude, don't with the 'Mister Kane' thing. Just Patrick, all right?" 

Jonathan shrugs, like it doesn't faze him at all to use either name. "Sure."

"Okay. Well, thanks, Jonathan." He can use people's names, too, and there's the bonus of there being a nametag to read in this case.

"Jonny," Jonathan says, just a hint of a smile on his face. It really dispels that whole serial-killer look he's got going most of the time. He should smile more. Be less serious. "If we're being casual."

Patrick's a fan of casual, especially in this particular, developing case. "All right, then. Jonny. Thanks for the smoothie."

"It's what I do." 

There it is, the trace of something like warmth or humor under the words that fuels the stomach butterflies, which are apparently really active today. Patrick almost comes back with _no, what you do is judge the asses of hockey players that walk by your establishment_ —because he's pretty sure this is Jonny's place and all, since he's literally seen him every time he's walked by, all judgy and whatever, and the dude gave him a free drink last time—but keeps his mouth shut. Actually, speaking of asses...

"Yeah, well, thanks," he says again, glancing towards the door, where the bell has just chimed to let someone else in. "And for the record—" He drops his voice and leans in over the counter, gratified that Jonny leans in to hear him without even appearing to think about it, "—you've got one hell of an ass, yourself."

This time, Jonny's the one left stunned and spluttering. Patrick takes advantage of the customers approaching the counter and flees, drink in hand, grinning like a maniac the whole way back to his car.

* * *

The third time Patrick makes it into Jonny's shop, he realizes he's made a tactical error.

It's early afternoon on a Saturday, unseasonably warm for early April in Chicago, and there are a _whole lot_ of customers packed into the place.

It's good, in a way, Patrick supposes, trying to decide if he's going to stay or just turn right around. He'd been almost a little worried about how few people he'd seen in the place the last couple of times, and hoped Jonny's business was doing okay. Now, looking around, he's pretty sure the guy's doing just fine. 

He weighs his options. He's not after a post-workout smoothie this time; they've had the incredibly rare weekend day off, and he's spent the morning with Sharpy, who'd taken his daughters out to the park so his wife could have some time to herself. He's really just come in here to see Jonny again, maybe see if the guy has anything to say, in regards to Patrick's parting comment last time. He eyes everyone in line and those standing off to the side, waiting for the orders they've already placed, and sighs. Fuck it. He's here. He might as well stick around and order something, so he doesn't seem rude.

He's probably about five customers back, stuck behind two women around his age who've apparently come from the yoga studio across the plaza—they're both still wearing yoga pants and tank tops, with color-coordinating light jackets on top, and the redhead has a rolled up yoga mat in a bag slung over her shoulder, which almost smacks Patrick in the face when she turns to look at her friend—when he catches part of their conversation, because the redhead's got one of those voices that pierces through everything.

"Well, I mean, I was thinking of getting the Number Six, which tastes kinda like carrot cake, or maybe the Number Ten, which is like a Mexican hot chocolate." Patrick rolls his eyes to himself. Of course Jonny would have sweeter options on the menu, for the general population of Chicago that doesn't actually, fanatically care about how many grams of protein and fiber are in their drinks. He'll have to give him shit for that, if they get to a point in their dynamic where that's an acceptable thing, especially since the only things Patrick has come out of here with have been green. 

"I have no idea what to get," the blonde friend says. She's staring up at the menu—which Patrick should probably actually look at, come to think of it, instead of idly fucking around on his phone. "I've never been in before. What else is good? But not too much sugar?"

The redhead shrugs, nearly smacking Patrick with the end of the yoga mat again. "I mean, if you don't want one of the ones I mentioned, the Number Two's pretty good. It's got avocado and matcha powder. Oh, wait, no, you know what I think I want, after all? The Number Eighty-Eight."

Patrick's head snaps up at that, expecting to find the redhead looking at him. She's not, though, so she most likely wasn't making some weird reference to ordering him instead of a drink. It's kind of a relief. He's met some fans who are _really_ forward. His eyes flick up to the menu, which stops at Number Fifteen.

Apparently he's not the only one confused, because the blonde pauses for a moment before murmuring, "I don't see...?"

"Oh, it's not on the board," her friend tells her, and now Patrick's actually curious. "It's on the secret menu, like how Starbucks has. I think there are only a couple things on it, but the Number Eighty-Eight is probably what we regulars request most. It's super high in protein. You can try mine."

Patrick tunes totally out of their conversation. Jonny has a secret menu. He has a secret menu, with a high-protein drink that bears Patrick's number. This _cannot_ be a coincidence.

Obviously, Patrick has to order it.

He waits his turn, letting one other customer cut in front of him when they step in behind him, just so he can be sure it's Jonny to wait on him, and not one of the other two people at the counter. "Hey, Patrick," Jonny says, smiling more than Patrick's seen him do before. "How are you?" Patrick just stares at him, giving him his best "are you fucking serious?" look. Jonny's smile shrinks considerably. "Uh. What can I get you today?"

"You have a secret menu."

Jonny's face does something else, then. It loses the worried sort of expression (which was not a look Patrick liked, actually, so that part is good), and twists into something that's almost a grumpy little frown that Patrick should not find adorable, but somehow does. He thinks it might even be a sign of affection. It's sort of like the look Patrick had seen before and mistaken as part of all the judging. "Maybe."

"So," he says, still staring Jonny down, because Jonny's not offering any further explanation. He leans his elbows on the counter. "Gimme my smoothie."

Jonny sticks out his lips in what a braver man might call a pout. "You don't _have_ a 'my' smoothie yet. Two previous visits is not enough to establish a 'usual' order. Especially not when you've had two different things."

"You have a smoothie _named after me_ ," Patrick clarifies, since Jonny wants to play dumb.

"Even if it _is_ named after an athlete," he says, looking sort of aloof in a way Patrick totally sees through, "there are plenty of number eighty-eights in sports history. Even in the NHL." He quirks an eyebrow. "That could be Brent Burns's smoothie."

"Like hell, Brent Burns," Patrick huffs. That bearded bastard doesn't deserve a smoothie named after him.

"Or Eric Lindros's." Jonny shrugs. "Or Joe Sakic's."

Patrick lets out a noise that could maybe charitably be called a snort, but is actually more like a squawk. "He wore eighty-eight for _one season_. If _any_ smoothie is Sakic's smoothie, it should be nineteen!"

Jonny just smirks at him. Patrick hates that he's almost a little turned on by it. Well, that and the fact that Jonny apparently knows his hockey. "If you say so."

"Yeah, I fucking do! And seriously man, make with the Number Eighty-Eight."

Jonny's still smirking. "I'm sorry, the menu only goes to Number Fifteen."

"Yeah, and I know that redhead with the yoga mat ordered the Eighty-Eight. So come on. Seriously, Jonny, don't hold out on me." He gives his best pathetically sad face, the one he usually uses to guilt trip his sisters. It hasn't worked in at least a decade, but that's beside the point. His sisters had years to build up an immunity. Jonny hasn't.

"All right, fine," Jonny says with a heavy sigh, caving after a few seconds of staring and Patrick's sad, sad face. "One Number Eighty-Eight, coming right up." Patrick crows and pumps his fist in victory. "Okay, no, if you celly in my shop, I'm not making you anything."

"Pfft, buzzkill," Patrick says, and sticks out his tongue. Jonny rolls his eyes at that, but he seems amused. Patrick will take it. 

Patrick pays for his drink, handing his credit card over to the kid Jonny flags down to ring him up while he gets to work making the thing. He manages to block Patrick's view of whatever he's doing with his body, so he can't completely see what goes into it. There's definitely at least one sort of protein powder in there, though, and some sort of seeds. 

And, wonder of wonders, it's not green. More like a dark reddish-purple—which Patrick hopes is due to fruit and not something like beets—even though he's fairly sure he saw Jonny with a small container of something orange and powdered, which, whatever. 

Jonny hands it over, eyebrows raised in what Patrick can tell is a "well?" sort of expression, and doesn't say a word. He actually looks like he might be nervous. Patrick hopes this secret menu item doesn't taste awful, but even if it does, he feels like he can humor Jonny. From what the yoga mat chick said, plenty of regulars like it enough to request it specially.

He's not entirely sure what to expect, but what happens is that he gives a sort of pleased-sounding noise of surprise at his first sip, even though Jonny's practically boring holes into him with his eyes, apparently waiting for Patrick's verdict. "What is this? It's not almond, is it?"

"Cashew," Jonny says. "I mean, if you're asking specifically about the nut butter part of it. There's kind of a lot of stuff in there."

"And chia seeds? Really?"

"Those and hemp hearts."

He looks defensive, and Patrick shakes his head, taking another sip. "No, man, it's good. Just not your standard fare. I like it. Nice blend of stuff. You know your shit." It actually _is_ good, is the thing. Patrick doesn't just mean it as flattery. Yeah, it's not like the much sweeter stuff he normally gets from Jamba Juice, that most people probably think of when they think "smoothie," but it's nice and thick without being _too_ thick, and it's got sort of a nutty-and-tropical thing going for it, and it tastes sort of...fresh, and clean or something like that. Not bitter or anything, and the tang that's usually in the yogurt-heavy smoothies Patrick's used to getting most places isn't really present at all.

"You don't have to like it, you know," Jonny mutters. "No matter what it's called. I can make you something from the actual menu." 

He reaches out his hand like he's going to take the cup away, and Patrick yanks it out of his reach. "Hell no, I'm keeping this. I _do_ like it. Plus, it's got the best number ever. Can't go wrong." He smiles at Jonny, just a little, keeping eye contact. "Might have to order this one the next time I come in, too."

It's great seeing Jonny's eyebrows go up at that, actual surprise at Patrick's mention of next time. And that's definitely a hopeful expression that hits just a moment later.

Oh, hey, the butterflies are back.

"I've gotta get going," Patrick says, suddenly aware that he's due for a Skype session with his sister in fifteen minutes—which he is definitely going to be late for, and which she is certainly going to be a pain in the ass about. "But I'll see you next week." He's already got it planned, fit into his schedule where the Jamba Juice stop would normally be. "Wednesday?"

"I—uh—yeah, Wednesday," Jonny stammers, looking pleased and still kind of surprised. "I'll be here. Like always."

"Great. See you then." He gets to the front door, then turns around. Jonny's still standing sort of off to the side of the counter, now that there aren't any other customers currently waiting for drinks, right where he was a moment ago. And he's totally watching Patrick leave. "Hey, Jonny," he calls out, because he can't fucking help himself. "Boom. Heartbreaker." He shoots Jonny a thumbs up as he walks backwards through the door, laughing at Jonny's incredulous "seriously?" that follows him out of the place.

That might be all over social media in about thirteen seconds, but Patrick didn't see anyone with a phone out—and there had only been maybe three customers at tables anyway, since everyone else had taken their orders to go—and he's feeling lucky. Just joking around with a local business owner. No worse than when he covers the logos of rival hockey teams on fans' jerseys when they want photos.

He doesn't even realize he's humming the chorus to _Chelsea Dagger_ until he's a block away, and that just amuses him even more.

* * *

By the time Wednesday morning rolls around, Patrick's pretty well pumped up for it.

It must show, because even a couple of the guys chirp him about it, little cracks about practicing hard and dominating like he's got someone to impress up in the scattered fans up in the stands, watching them. Even Sharpy eyes him in the locker room after, scrutinizing. "You're oddly focused today, there, Peeks. Wake up on the right side of the bed? Or any side of the right bed?"

Patrick snorts, tugging a T-shirt on over his head. His curls are still damp, but he doesn't care. "No. Just feel good. Is that a crime?"

"Nope. Well, whatever you're doing the rest of the day, kill it like you did in practice."

"Will do." He jams a hat on his head and gives Sharpy a flippant sort of thumbs-up as he strolls out of the locker room, not far behind Turbo, who's chattering away to someone on the other end of his phone in Finnish. By the time he gets behind the wheel, he's even more focused. The goddamn butterflies have decided to take up residence in his stomach again, but Patrick can live with that. It's like just the very edge of a high, not nearly as strong as pre-game nerves, but a little of the anticipation and adrenaline that pushes him to see the win ahead, work towards it with a focus no one can break.

Jonny's head snaps up at the chime of the bell over the door in a way that says he's been waiting for Patrick's arrival. He smiles as they catch each other's eyes, wide and sort of goofy for a split-second before he seems to remember he's at work and Patrick's just a customer, managing to school it into a regular old customer-service smile quickly. "Good morning."

"'Morning, Jonny." He watches one corner of Jonny's mouth—the left side, the one without the scar—twitch up just a little higher when Patrick uses his name. "How's it going?"

"It's going all right. What can I do for you today?"

Patrick takes a deep breath. It's not quite now-or-never, but he's come here for a reason, with intent, and he'd really like to leave with more than just a smoothie this time. With Jonny's number, ideally. "Actually, I wanted to ask you something."

"Yeah, man, I know. I've got the info on all the nutritional breakdowns back on my computer in the office. Why don't you follow me, and we'll get what you need."

Patrick's confused for just the smallest beat at Jonny's smooth, easy delivery of the line, like he'd been expecting Patrick to come in and ask for that sort of thing—which isn't a bad idea, really; the nutritionists on staff would probably benefit a lot from him adding that kind of accurate information about his diet into his file—before he catches on. There are a couple of other people in the shop, a cashier Patrick thinks was also in on Saturday, and a guy sitting at a table in the corner, scrolling through his phone while he nurses whatever drink he's ordered. Maybe Jonny knows what he's here for, maybe he wants to let Patrick down easily, maybe he just wants to have a regular old chat without being stared at, because the guy with the phone is now looking at Patrick like he thinks he recognizes him, but can't quite place him yet. It doesn't really matter. 

"Yeah, great, I appreciate it. Lead the way." He follows Jonny around and into the back, into the office past the area with the dishwasher and the walk-in cooler that's probably stacked full of produce. Once Jonny closes the door behind them—and locks it—Patrick takes a deep breath again, willing the butterflies to settle. "I probably should actually get a copy of the info you mentioned," he says, scratching the back of his neck. "But you know that's not what I wanted to ask you about, right?"

"Yeah, I had a feeling," Jonny says with a small snort, rolling his eyes. "So what is it?"

Patrick is suddenly very, very aware at just how small this office is. There's a computer chair shoved back here, along with a handful of filing cabinets, and the computer desk takes up basically all of the main wall. It's got him and Jonny standing pretty close, Jonny practically up against the door after he's locked it, Patrick unable to really move anywhere else without risking falling right over the chair, which is just behind his legs. He shifts a little, feeling the seat of it brush against the back of his thighs, just above the knee. He realizes he hasn't actually answered the question, and Jonny's looking at him expectantly. 

Right. Time to nut the fuck up. He's a pro athlete. He's accustomed to people being attracted to him, in one way or another, whether physically or due to his name or just his occupation. He can handle this. "What are you doing later? This evening?"

Jonny's expression doesn't give anything away. "Here till close at seven tonight. Why?"

"What would you say to getting coffee? Together."

The look on Jonny's face is unimpressed. "Really?" Patrick's about to try to backtrack to save a little face, but Jonny sighs, shaking his head, and he goes on before Patrick can figure out how to play it off. "If we're talking that hour of the day—or night—you could have asked me out for a drink, instead." Whoa there, hold up, butterflies. Jesus, it's like being a kid and having his first crush again. He thought he was over this shit ten years ago, he's an adult, for God's sake. "At the least."

Patrick can feel his eyebrows go up. "Well, then, how about dinner?"

"Dinner's not a bad offer," Jonny says, slow and considering, like Patrick actually has to convince him to want to go out. He's such a pain in the ass, Patrick can already tell.

And he fucking likes it.

"Fine, then. Dinner. You pick the place." He thinks about it for just a second, about what little he knows about Jonny, about this place, and amends that hastily. "But it can't be some hippy vegan salad and tofu place. I've got a nutrition plan, man." He's got to know there's _something_ he can actually eat where he won't pay for inadequate amounts of protein and carbs and all the shit his body actually requires, later. 

Jonny huffs. "I eat meat, damn it. We could even do a steakhouse, whatever. Find one that'll work with your diet, I'll be fine. The menu's not exactly my biggest concern."

"Oh?"

Okay, _that's_ Jonny's judging look. "I'm kind of more about the company, this time around."

"Yeah?" It comes out kind of breathy, and Jonny grins, nice and slow. There's something calculating in his eyes, and Patrick thinks briefly of that shark in that Disney movie, when its eyes get all black and wide when it's ready to attack prey. 

"Yeah." Jesus, he loves the look Jonny's giving him right now, like he's hungry and what he wants is Patrick. He licks his lips, watching the way Jonny's eyes follow the movement. 

"So, that's settled. Dinner tonight. We can meet at the restaurant at, what, eight or eight-thirty?" He'll have to figure out reservations, because he's already got a place in mind. "Give me your number, and I'll shoot you a text or something later to get the details settled." Jonny fishes his phone out of his pocket and Patrick does the same. They get their numbers squared away, and Patrick wonders how long he's kept Jonny back here, away from his work. "Uh. I should probably actually leave here with those printouts, so we don't blow your cover story."

Jonny laughs softly, then moves closer, reaching around Patrick with one hand to grab a small, paper-clipped stack of papers already sitting next to the computer. They lock eyes, and Patrick's breath catches just a little. He knows Jonny's feels it too, this charged moment between them. "Can I...?" Jonny murmurs, words exhaled on a soft breath. "There's something I've really been wanting to do for a while, and..."

Patrick nods. "Yeah. Yeah, okay." He can practically feel the heat of Jonny's body, so close, and it's awesome.

Jonny nods and doesn't move for a second. And then he shifts, coming a little closer, and dips his chin to angle closer to Patrick, making him really notice the height difference. Patrick licks his lips again, wondering if Jonny's planning on a chaste sort of closed-mouth kiss, or something more than that but still polite—he's totally fine with either option; he has no problem letting Jonny control the pace of this thing they're doing—when Jonny rotates just a little, his left hip pressed against Patrick's and his right one up against the desktop, and gets a solid handful of Patrick's ass, giving it a healthy squeeze through the denim of his jeans. 

Patrick can't help it. He cracks the fuck up. Here he was, thinking Jonny was going to kiss him, all respectful and shit, totally forgetting Jonny'd been checking out his ass for—bare minimum— _months_ as he walked by. 

Jonny grins at him, sly and mischievous, and Patrick grins back. "Sorry?" 

"No you're not."

"No, I'm not." 

Patrick's now five thousand percent sure about him and Jonny, that he likes this guy enough to want to actually date him, if he's up for it. 

This time when Jonny moves in, all slow and confident, Patrick meets him for the kiss, letting Jonny be the one to slip him tongue first, and then pressing Jonny's back up against the door and letting his own hand slide around to settle on Jonny's ass.

And _goddamn_. 

"Even better than I hoped," Patrick murmurs against Jonny's neck. He might need a minute. That is one seriously spectacular ass, amazing muscle tone, and firm, with a round swell that gives him more than a handful. He's only disappointed he hasn't been able to admire Jonny's ass as long as Jonny's been able to check out Patrick's.

Jonny grins down at him and gives Patrick's ass a firm smack, pressing their hips together with the movement. "You like it now, wait till later." Patrick makes a ridiculous half-strangled noise, and Jonny laughs. "We'll leave that open to interpretation, depending on how tonight—and potentially other nights—go." He gives Patrick another kiss, this one short and playful. "Now get the hell out of here before I have to explain what took so long to do in the office."

Patrick snorts, but takes the offered print-outs, making sure he doesn't look like he's been groping anyone here in the back. "Yeah, okay." He follows Jonny out of the office, back the way they'd come, and makes sure to thank Jonny for the nutritional info once they're out in front again. 

"No problem," Jonny tells him, sounding professional and shit. "Have a good day."

Patrick gives him a little salute with the papers in his hand. "You, too." He's sure as fuck going to have a good day now. "Cue the Dagger," he murmurs to himself as he steps onto the sidewalk, and smirks. Yeah, he'll have a good day.

And hopefully, an even better night.


End file.
